Kingsman - by Ibn Abdullah 🦁

It had been a long-standing tradition in the Umar household that the right to pick the fabric, select a tailor, and sew Eid clothes rested solely in the palms of Her Majesty, Mother. For as far back as my memory can travel, my mother had been responsible for what we wore on Eid. Sometimes the outfits turned out well. Most times, I only wore what she had tailored to fulfil all righteousness. No matter how they turned out, the rights rested with her, as proclaimed by the powers that be (herself). It was ironclad. So, on the day of the handing-over ceremony, when we were finally bestowed with the authority, by royal decree, to sew our own outfits, I felt incredibly powerful. My brother quickly went to work. His friend was a tailor, you see. Kingsman was an odd name for a clothing brand that didn't tailor suits, but boy, was it cool as hell. When he came to take my measurements in my room, I almost thought I was being recruited into a British intelligence organization. He only sewed traditional outfits, by the way. I gave him my specifications and tastes. Very bland preferences, I must admit, but he nodded nonetheless as he scribbled down notes. I remember it was about a week to Eid when Kingsman arrived with the package. Normally, the tradition of trying on Eid outfits had become an exercise in expected disappointment. Her Majesty's tailor sure had a way of messing up the tiniest of details. A sleeve too long, a collar too tight. Sometimes there were no complaints to be made, but most times, we simply swallowed down the pain. The agony of being used as a subject of what I ordered versus what I got comparisons. This time, it was different. The packaging was already alluring. I carefully pulled open the zip and drew out the outfits. I remember the glistening blue cloth. My favourite colour. The colour above all colours. The edges were finely ironed, sharp as knives. I almost cut my fingers unpacking it. I put it on. Immediately, I could tell. It fit. The cloth settled comfortably over my sculpted proportions. I walked towards the mirror. The moment of truth. There were drums rolling in my head. The instant my eyes met the figure in the mirror, a runway spread before me, and I felt myself a model. Kingsman had made a Yarima out of me. To this day, I still get the occasional calls of "Alhaji" whenever I wear an outfit tailored by Kingsman! Her Majesty still preferred her tailors, though. But best believe I was not looking back.

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